The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 11 DOCKTOWN 333 AR WINTER

“Damajah, there must be some mistake,” Abban said. “My duties here—”

“Can wait,” Inevera’s voice in his ear cut him off. That she had refused to see him, deigning only to speak via hora ring, said more than any words about the finality of the decision.

“You have made your case too well, khaffit,” the Damajah continued. “We must have the Laktonian tithe to keep our forces strong, and we both know Jayan is more likely to shit in the Laktonian grain for spite than he is to tally and ship it back to Everam’s Bounty. You must see to that.”

“Damajah, your son hates me,” Abban said. “Out beyond your reach …”

“It may be you who catches a stray arrow and does not return?” Inevera asked. “Yes, that is true. You will need to take care, but so long as you handle the aspects of war he does not wish to, Jayan will see the value in letting you live.”

“And his bodyguard Hasik, who my own men castrated?” Abban asked.

“It was you let out that djinn, khaffit,” Inevera replied. “It is up to you to find a way to close it. Hasik’s passing would fill no tear bottles.”

Abban sighed. With Qeran and Earless at his side at all times, Hasik was unlikely to strike at him, and he could make himself useful enough to Jayan to ingratiate for a short time. Undoubtedly, there was a fortune to be made in Lakton. Many fortunes, for one with a sharp eye.

“So I may return with the tithe?” he asked. He could last a few weeks, surely.

“You may return when Lakton flies a Krasian flag, and not before,” Inevera said. “The dice say wisdom will be needed in the taking, and of that, my son’s court has little. You must guide them.”

“Me?” Abban gaped. “Conduct war and give orders to the Deliverer’s son? These things are above my caste, Damajah.”

Inevera laughed at that. “Khaffit, please. Do not insult us both.”

As Inevera had predicted, Waning had brought no unusual levels of attack from the alagai, but even the rebels amongst the chin were not fool enough not to weaken the defenses in the dark of new moon. Dawn after the third night came all too soon.

“As soon as the road is secure, I want daily updates on every operation,” Abban told Jamere.

Jamere rolled his eyes. “You’ve told me that seven times now, Uncle.”

“A dama should know that seven is a holy number,” Abban said. “Holier still is seven times seventy, and that is how many times I will tell you, if that is what it takes to penetrate your thick head.”

There were few dama in the world a khaffit could take such a tone with—lacking a wish to journey the lonely path—but Jamere was Abban’s nephew. He had become arrogant and insufferable since being raised to the white, but Abban would never have taken the boy in if he had not been clever. Clever enough to understand his life of ease was entirely dependent on keeping his uncle happy. He would leave the running of the business to the women of the family, Abban’s sisters and wives, and act as a figurehead to sign papers and threaten any who dare encroach on Abban’s territory in his absence.

“By Everam and all that is holy, I swear I shall send you missives daily,” Jamere said with a cocksure bow.

“Everam’s balls, boy,” Abban chuckled. “I trust that promise least of all!”

He hugged the boy, as close to a son as any of his own spawn, and kissed his cheeks.

“Enough filling tear bottles like wives at dusk,” Qeran snapped. “Your new walls are strong, Abban, but they will be put to the test if the Sharum Ka must come and collect you.”

The drillmaster sat atop one of the giant greenland horses. There was no sign of the drunken cripple Abban had found in a pool of his own piss mere months ago. Qeran’s right stirrup was specially designed to fit his metal leg, and he handled the animal expertly, unhindered.

“Every. Day,” he whispered in Jamere’s ear one last time.

Jamere laughed. “Go, Uncle.” He gave Abban a gentle shove toward his camel, steadying the ropes of the cursed stepladder with his own weight as Abban struggled to climb.

“Shall I have them fetch a winch?” Jamere asked.

Abban put the foot of his crutch down on the young cleric’s fingers, putting weight on them as he ascended another step. Jamere gasped and pulled his hand away as the weight lifted, but he was still smirking as he shook the pain from it.

Abban reached the top of the beast’s back at last, strapping himself in. Unlike Qeran, Abban could not ride a horse for any length of time without pain beyond his ability to endure. Easier to lounge in the canopied seat atop his favorite camel. The animal was stubborn, as apt to bite or spit as obey, but it was as fast as a Krasian charger when whipped, and speed would be of the essence in an overland march.

He kept his eyes ahead until the procession was through the gates, then paused, turning back to give one last longing look at the thick walls of his compound. It was the first place he’d felt secure since Ahmann led his people from the Desert Spear. The crete was hardly dry on the walls, his guards only just accustomed to their routines, and already he had to leave the place behind.

“Not as pretty as a Damaji’s palace,” Qeran said at his side, “but as strong a fortress as the Desert Spear.”

“Return me to it alive, Drillmaster,” Abban said, “and I shall make you richer than a Damaji.”

“What need have I for wealth?” Qeran asked. “I have my honor, my spear, and Sharak. A warrior needs no more.”

The Drillmaster laughed at Abban’s worried look. “Fear not, khaffit! I have sworn to you now, for better or worse. Honor demands I return you safely, or die in the attempt.”

Abban smiled. “The former, if you please, Drillmaster. Or both, if need be.”

Qeran nodded, kicking his horse and starting the procession. Behind them followed Abban’s Hundred, kha’Sharum handpicked and trained by Qeran. The Deliverer’s decree granted him one hundred warriors and one hundred only, but Abban had taken one hundred twenty in case some failed or were crippled in training.

Thus far all had excelled, but the training had only just begun. Abban would return them when the Skull Throne demanded it and not a moment before. He wished he could take them all to Lakton, and his five hundred chi’Sharum as well, but Jamere and Abban’s women needed men to guard his holdings, and it would not do to show his full strength to Jayan’s court. At least a few of them could count past a hundred.

The Sharum Ka was giving last-minute instructions to his younger brother Hoshkamin when they found him in the training grounds. Jayan had dropped jaws in the Andrah’s court when he announced that Hoshkamin, just raised to the black, would sit the Spear Throne in his absence.

It was a bold move, and one that showed Jayan was not blind to the danger of leaving his seat of power. Hoshkamin was too inexperienced to truly lead, but like Jamere, the Deliverer’s third son and his eleven half brothers were intimidating stewards.

Jayan may yet take the Skull Throne, Abban thought. I had best ingratiate myself while I still can.

“Horses, I said, khaffit,” Jayan snapped, looking down his nose at Abban’s camel. “The chin will hear that beast braying a mile off!”

The other warriors laughed, all save Hasik, who glared at Abban with open hatred. Rumor had it the man had become even more sadistic since Abban had cut his balls off. Denied the brutal but simple release of rape, he had become … creative. A trait Jayan was said to encourage.

“A khaffit in our company is an ill omen, Sharum Ka,” Khevat said. “And this one, in particular.” Dama Khevat sat straight-backed and stone-faced on his white charger. The man hated Abban nearly as much as Hasik, but the cleric was too experienced to reveal his feelings. Not yet sixty and still vital, Khevat had trained both Ahmann and Abban in sharaj. He was now the ranking dama in all Krasia, father to the Andrah and grandfather to the Damaji of the Kaji. Perhaps the only man powerful enough to keep Jayan in line.

Perhaps.

Next to Khevat, on a smaller, if equally pristine white charger, was Dama’ting Asavi. Other dama’ting would ride in a carriage with the supply train, but it seemed Inevera was taking no chances on this mission. No doubt the sight of a woman, even a dama’ting, riding a horse like a man set the rest of the Sharum Ka’s court on edge, but she was a Bride of Everam, and none would hinder her.

Asavi’s gaze was even harder to read than Khevat’s. Her eyes gave no indication they had ever met. Abban was pleased Inevera had another agent close at hand, but he was not fool enough to think he could depend on her to protect him should he anger his host.

“I cannot sit a horse, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “And I will, of course, remain behind while you conquer the city. My noisy camel and I will only approach Docktown when you have claimed victory and need to begin tallying the spoils.”

“He will slow our progress through the chin lands, Sharum Ka,” Hasik said. He smiled, revealing a gold tooth that replaced the one Qeran had knocked out in sharaj a quarter century ago, earning him the nickname Whistler. “This is not the first time Abban has been dead weight to a march. Let me kill him now and have done.”

Qeran nudged his horse forward. The drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself—even Jayan was respectful to him. “You will need to get through me first, Hasik.” He smiled. “And none know your failings as a warrior better than I who instructed you.”

Hasik’s eyes widened, but his look of surprise was quick to turn into a snarl. “I am not your student anymore, old man, and I still have all my limbs.”

Qeran snorted. “Not all, I hear! Come at me, Whistler, and this time I will take more than your tooth.”

“Whistler!” Jayan laughed, breaking the tension. “I’ll need to remember that! Stand down, Hasik.”

The eunuch closed his eyes, and for a moment Abban thought it was a ruse precluding attack. Qeran was relaxed as he watched, but Abban knew he could react in an instant if Hasik made a move.

But Hasik was not fool enough to disobey the Sharum Ka. He had fallen far since Abban had castrated him for raping his daughter, and only Jayan had offered him a chance to restore his honor.

“Our reckoning will come, pig-eater,” he growled, easing his heavy mustang back.

Jayan turned to Abban. “He is right, though. You will slow us, khaffit.”

Abban bowed as low as he could from his saddle. “There is no need for me to slow the swift march of your warriors, Sharum Ka. I will travel a day behind with my Hundred and the supply trains. We will meet you at the camp a day before the attack, and join you in Docktown by noontime on first snow.”

Jayan shook his head. “Too soon. There may still be fighting throughout the day. Best you come the following dawn.”

You and your men need a day to properly loot the town, you mean, Abban thought.

He bowed again. “Apologies, Sharum Ka, but for the mission to be successful, there cannot. There must not. As you told the council, you must seize the town and secure the tithe before they know you are upon them. Strike hard and fast, lest they escape on their ships, or fire the harvest simply to deny it to us.”

He lowered his voice for Jayan alone to hear as the young Sharum Ka’s face darkened at the tone. “Of course my first duty in the tallies will be to see to it the Sharum Ka has his share of the spoils before they are shipped to Everam’s Bounty. The Skull Throne has empowered me to give you ten percent, but there is some, ah, flexibility in these matters. I could arrange fifteen …”

Jayan’s eyes flashed with greed. “Twenty, or I will gut you like the pig you are.”

Ah, Sharum, Abban thought, suppressing his smile. All the same. Not a haggler among you.

He blew out a breath, molding his face into a look of worry—though of course the number was meaningless. He could weave such a web of lists and tallies Jayan would never penetrate it, or realize whole warehouses and thousands of acres had disappeared from the ledgers. Abban would make the Sharum Ka think he had taken fifty percent, and give him less than five.

At last he bowed. “As the Sharum Ka commands.”

Perhaps this would not be so bad after all.

Abban lounged with his distance lens in the comfortable chair he’d had placed atop the small rise as the attack fell upon Docktown. Qeran, Earless, and Asavi preferred to stand, but he didn’t begrudge them that. The warrior and holy castes had ever been masochists.

He had chosen the knoll for its fine view of the town and docks from a direction refugees were unlikely to flee when the fighting broke out. The day was clear enough that Abban could just make out the city on the lake with his naked eye, a blur coloring the edge of the horizon. It was clearer with his distance lens, though all he could make out were docks and ships. Accounting for the distance, it was much larger than he had anticipated.

Shifting back to Docktown and adjusting his lens, Abban could clearly see individual workers on the docks. They moved easily, unaware what was about to befall them.

Even from this distance, Abban could hear the thunder of the Krasian charge. The first Dockfolk they encountered looked up at the sound just in time to die, impaled on light spears thrown from moving horses. The dal’Sharum were brutal, uneducated animals, but at killing they were second to none.

They spread out as they made the town, some riding into the streets to create havoc and subdue the Dockfolk as others flanked the town to either side and put on speed, racing to come at the docks from both directions, before the sailors even realized what was happening.

Now the screams began, cries of victims cut quickly short, and the prolonged wails of those left in the wake. Abban took no pleasure in the sounds, but neither did he feel remorse. This was not senseless killing. There was more profit to be made in a quick submission than an extended siege. Let the Sharum have their fun, so long as they captured the docks, the ships, and the tithe.

Fires began to crop up as the warriors sought to sow confusion and chaos while they made their way to their objective. As a rule, Abban hated fire as a tool of war. Indiscriminate and expensive, it inevitably destroyed things of value. Sharum lives were cheaper by far.

Horns began to sound, followed by the great bell on the docks. Abban watched as the sailors dropped the cargo they were loading and raced for the ships.

The air around the docks turned sharp as Mehnding archers loosed their arrows and Sharum hurled throwing spears, killing first the men on deck—frantically trying to cast lines and raise sail—and then the fleeing workers.

Abban smiled, turning his lens out onto the water. A few approaching ships turned away, but one found a clear stretch of dock and swept in, throwing down planks for women and children fleeing the attack.

The planks bowed under the weight of the rush, and more than one refugee fell into the water. Able men joined the press, pushing and shoving until it seemed more than not were falling into the water. No one bothered to help the fallen—all were focused on getting aboard.

At last the ship reached capacity, dipping noticeably deeper in the water. The captain shouted something into his horn, but the fleeing townsfolk kept trying to get aboard. The sailors kicked out the planks before they sank the ship, and turned the sails to the wind, moving swiftly away from water churning with desperate, screaming refugees.

Abban sighed. He might feel no remorse, but neither did he wish to watch people drown. He moved his lens back over the town, where the Sharum appeared to have taken firm control. He hoped they would douse the fires quickly, already there was too much smoke …

Abban started, moving the lens quickly back to the docks.

“Everam’s balls, not again,” he said. He turned to Qeran. “Ready the men. We’re going in.”

“It is hours before noon,” Qeran said. “The Sharum Ka—”

“Is going to lose this war if he doesn’t get his camel-fucking idiot warriors under control,” Abban snapped.

“They are burning the ships.”

“What difference does it make?” Jayan demanded. “Capture the tithe, you said. Do not let the ships escape, you said. We have done both, and still you dare come shouting before me?”

Abban took a deep breath. His blood was up as high as Jayan’s, and that was a dangerous thing. He might speak to Ahmann as if he were a fool, but his son would not tolerate such words from a khaffit.

He bowed. “With respect, Sharum Ka, how are we to get your warriors to the city on the lake to conquer it without boats?”

“We will build our own. How hard can it …” Jayan trailed off, looking at the huge cargo vessels with their intricate rigging.

“Put them out!” he cried. “Icha! Sharu! Get those fires under control. Move the remaining ships away from the flames!”

But of course the Sharum had no idea how to move the ships, and the Everam-cursed things seemed to catch sparks as if oiled. Abban watched in horror as a fleet of almost forty large ships and hundreds of smaller ones—along with much of the docks—was reduced to ten scorched ships and a scattering of smaller vessels.

Jayan glared, as if daring Abban to speak of the lost fleet, but Abban kept wisely silent. The ships were a concern for springtime, and winter had only just begun. They had the tithe, and if they had lost the ships, so, too, had Lakton lost its link to the mainland.

“My congratulations on a fine victory, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, reading the stream of reports from his men as they catalogued the spoils of the attack. The grain would mostly be sent back to Everam’s Bounty, but there were countless barrels of strong drink Abban could make vanish, and turn to profit, as well as other precious items and real estate. “The Damajah will be most pleased with you.”

“You will learn soon enough, khaffit,” Jayan said, “my mother is never pleased. Never proud.”

Abban shrugged. “The treasure is vast. You can hire a thousand mothers to follow you and shower you with praise.”

Jayan looked at him sidelong. “How vast?”

“Enough to give lands, holdings, and ten thousand draki apiece to all your most trusted lieutenants,” Abban said. A year’s pay to most Sharum, the number seemed grand, but it was a pittance spread amongst a few dozen men.

“Don’t be so quick to give away my fortune, khaffit,” Jayan growled.

“Your fortune?” Abban asked, seeming hurt. “I would not be so presumptuous. These are anticipated costs of war covered in the budget I gave the Andrah before leaving. Your purse will be free to begin settling your outstanding debt to the Builders’ Guild. I can arrange payment directly, if you wish.”

Like all men, Jayan had little tells as his blood began to rise. He cracked his knuckles, and Abban knew he had struck a nerve.

Jayan’s weakness was his palace. He was determined it be greater than any other, as befit the Skull Throne’s true heir. Coupled with his complete inability to count past his fingers, the quest had left the firstborn prince with stale air in his coffers and more interest accumulating each day than he could hope to pay. More than once he had come before the Skull Throne begging money for the “war effort” simply to keep his creditors at bay. Construction on the palace of the Sharum Ka had stopped midway, an embarrassment that followed Jayan everywhere.

It had to be dealt with, if the boy were to ever become pliable.

“Why should I pay those dogs?” Jayan demanded. “They have suckled at my teat too long! And for what? My palace dome looks like a cracked egg! No, now that I have this victory, they will resume work or I will have them killed.”

Abban nodded. “That is your right, of course, Sharum Ka. But then you would be short of skilled artisans, and those remaining would have no materials to work with. Or will you kill the quarrymen as well? The drainage pipe makers? Will threats keep the pack animals alive without money for feed?”

Jayan was silent a long time, and Abban allowed him a moment to simmer.

“Frankly, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, “if you were to kill anyone, it should be the moneylenders for the ridiculous interest rate they are charging you.”

Jayan clenched his fists. It was well known that he had exhausted a line of credit with every moneylender in Krasia. He opened his mouth to begin a tirade that would likely end in him commanding something quite bloody and stupid.

Abban cleared his throat just in time. “If you will allow me to negotiate on your behalf, Sharum Ka, I believe I can eliminate much of your debt, and begin payments that will see work on your palace resume without emptying your purse.”

He dropped his voice lower, his words for Jayan alone. “Your power and influence will only increase with a reputation as a man who pays his debts, Sharum Ka. As your father was.”

“Do not trust the khaffit, Sharum Ka,” Hasik warned. “He will whisper poison in your ear.”

“Do,” Abban said, pointing his chin at Hasik, “and you’ll be able to give your dog a golden cock to match his tooth.”

Jayan barked a laugh, and the rest of his entourage was quick to follow. Hasik’s face reddened and he reached for his spear.

Jayan put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Whistler! Heel me!”

Hasik turned to him incredulously, but the cold look the young Sharum Ka gave him made clear how he would deal with insolence. Hasik’s head drooped as he moved to stand behind Jayan.

“You have done well, khaffit,” Jayan said. “Perhaps I won’t need to kill you after all.”

Abban worked hard to keep his face and stance relaxed as he watched the warriors surround the warehouse, but his jaw was tight. He had begged Jayan to let him send his Hundred for the delicate mission instead of the dal’Sharum, but was dismissed out of hand. There was too much glory to be had.

The massive dockfront warehouse had great windows facing the three great piers jutting into the water like a trident. The local merchant prince, Dockmaster Isa, had reportedly barricaded himself and his guards inside.

According to Abban’s spies, the dockmasters were the real power in Lakton. Duke Reecherd was the strongest of them, but unless there was a tie, his vote had little more weight than any other.

“You shame him with that task,” Qeran said.

Abban turned to the approaching drillmaster, who was nodding at Earless. The rest of Abban’s Hundred ranged all over the town, surveying and preparing reports.

“Earless is one of the finest close fighters I have ever seen,” Qeran went on, free with his praise, knowing the warrior could not hear him. “He should be out killing alagai, not shading a fat khaffit afraid of a little sun.”

Admittedly, the kha’Sharum, seven feet of roped muscle and bristling with weapons, did look a bit foolish holding the delicate paper parasol over Abban. Mute, he could not protest, not that Abban would have cared. He thought he knew sun after a lifetime in the Krasian desert, but the refection off the lake water was something else entirely.

“I pay my kha’Sharum very well, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “If I wish them to put on a woman’s colored robes and do the pillow dance, they would be wise to do it with a smile.”

Abban turned back to watch the Sharum kick in the doors and storm the warehouse. Bows were fired from the second and third floor windows. Most deflected off round warded shields, but here and there a warrior screamed and fell.

Still the warriors pressed, bottlenecking at the door. Above, a cask of oil was dumped on their heads, followed by a torch, immolating a dozen men. Half of them were wise enough to run off the pier and leap into the water, but the rest stumbled about screaming, setting others alight. Their warrior brethren were forced to turn spears on them.

“If he has half a brain,” Abban said, “Earless prefers the parasol.”

It was the first real organized resistance Jayan’s men had encountered, killing and wounding more warriors than the rest of the town combined. But there were hundreds of Sharum and only a handful of Isa’s guards. They were quickly overwhelmed and the fires extinguished before they could destroy the grand building Jayan had already claimed as his Docktown palace.

“Everam,” Abban said, “if ever you have heard my pleas, let them bring the dockmaster out alive.”

“I spoke to the men just before the assault,” Qeran said. “These are Spears of the Deliverer. They will not fail in their duty just because a few men were sent down the lonely path. Those men died with honor and will soon stand before Everam to be judged.”

“The best trained dog will bite unbidden if pressed,” Abban said.

Qeran grunted, the usual sign he was swallowing offense. Abban shook his head. Sharum were full of bold speeches about honor, but they lived by their passions, and seldom thought past the moment. Would they know the dockmaster from one of his guards?

The clear signal was given, and Abban, Qeran, and Earless moved in to join the Sharum Ka as the prisoners were brought out.

A cluster of women came first. Most of them were in long dresses of fine cloth in the greenland fashion. Whorish by Krasian standards, but demure by their own. Abban could tell by their hair and jewels that these were women of good breeding or marriage, used to luxury. They were largely unspoiled, but through no mercy of the warriors. Jayan would be given his pick of the youngest, and the rest would be divided by his officers.

A few of the women were dressed in breeches like men. These bore bruises, but their clothing was intact.

The same could not be said of the chin guards marched through the doors next. The men had been stripped in shame, arms bound behind them around spear shafts. The dal’Sharum drove them outside with kicks, shoves, and leather straps.

But they were alive. It gave Abban hope that this once, the Sharum might exceed his low expectations.

Some women watched the scene in horror, but most turned away, sobbing. One, a strong woman in her middle years, watched with hard eyes. She was dressed in men’s clothing, but of fine cut and quality. Other women clutched at her for support.

The warriors kicked chin’s knees out and put boots to their naked backs, holding their heads to the ground in submission as Jayan approached.

“Where is the dockmaster?” Jayan demanded in accented but understandable Thesan.

Hasik knelt before him. “We have searched the entire building, Sharum Ka. There is no sign of him. He must have disguised himself among the fighting men.”

“Or escaped,” Abban said. Hasik glared at him, but he could not deny the possibility.

Jayan approached a man at random, kicking him so hard the man was flipped onto his back. He squirmed, naked and helpless, but his face was defiant as Jayan put the point of his spear to the man’s heart.

“Where is the dockmaster?” he demanded.

The guard spat at him, but his angle was wrong, and the spittle landed on his own naked belly. “Suck my cock you desert rat!”

Jayan nodded to Hasik, who gleefully kicked the man between the legs until his sandals were bloody and there was nothing left to suck.

“Where is the Dockmaster?” Jayan asked again, when his screams had turned to whimpers.

“Go to the Core!” the man squeaked.

Jayan sighed, putting his spear through the man’s chest. He turned to the next in line, and Hasik kicked this one onto his back as well. The man was weeping openly as Jayan stood over him. “Where is the dockmaster?”

The man groaned through his teeth, tears streaking his face. The boardwalk grew wet around him. Jayan leapt back in horrified disgust. “Pathetic dog!” he growled, drawing back his spear to thrust.

“ENOUGH!”

All eyes turned to the speaker. The woman in fine men’s clothing had broken away from the others to come forward a step. “I am Dockmaster Isadore.”

“Mistress, no!” one of the bound men cried. He tried to get to his feet, but a heavy kick put him back down.

Isadore? Abban thought.

Jayan laughed. “You?! A woman?” He strode over and grabbed the woman by the throat. “Tell me where the dockmaster is, or I will crush the life from you.”

The woman seemed unfazed, meeting his savage stare. “I told you, I am the dockmaster, you ripping savage.”

Jayan snarled and began to squeeze. The woman kept her defiant stare a few moments longer, but then her face began to redden, and she pulled helplessly at Jayan’s arm.

“Sharum Ka!” Abban called.

All eyes turned to him, Jayan never losing his grip on the woman, supporting her by her throat as the strength left her legs. Khevat and Hasik especially watched him, ready to strike at the first sign of Jayan’s disfavor.

Abban was not beyond kneeling when it was called for, and quickly lowered himself, hands and eyes on the wooden boardwalk. “The ways of the greenlanders are strange, Most Honored Sharum Ka. I heard the dockmaster’s name as Isa. This woman, Isadore, may be telling the truth.”

He left unsaid the words he had hammered into the boy privately. The dockmaster was worth far more alive than dead.

Jayan gave the woman an appraising look, then released her. She fell purple-faced to the boardwalk, coughing and gasping for air. He pointed his spear at her.

“Are you Dockmaster Isa?” he demanded. “Know that if I find you have lied to me, I will put every man, woman, and child in this chin village to the spear.”

“Isa was my father,” the woman said, “dead six winters today. I am Isadore, and took his seat after the funeral barge was burned.”

Jayan stared at her, considering, but Abban, who had been watching the other prisoners as well, was already convinced.

“Sharum Ka,” he said. “You have taken Docktown for the Skull Throne. Is it not time to raise the flag?”

Jayan looked at him. This was a plan they had discussed in detail. “Yes,” he said at last.

Horns were blown, and the Sharum drove the captured chin villagers toward the docks at spearpoint to watch as Dockmaster Isadore was marched to the flagpole and made to lower the Laktonian flag—a great three-masted sailing vessel on a field of blue—and raise the Krasian standard, spears crossed before the setting sun.

It was a purely symbolic gesture, but an important one. Jayan could now spare the remainder of her entourage, and accede her status as a princess of the chin without appearing weak.

“A woman,” Jayan said again. “This changes everything.”

“Everything, and nothing, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Man or woman, the dockmaster has information and connections, and her treatment will influence those in power in the city on the lake. Let the powerful think they will keep their titles and holdings, and they will deliver their own people to us on a platter.”

“What is the point of taking the city, if I let the chin keep it?” Jayan asked.

“Taxes,” Khevat said.

Abban bowed in agreement. “Let the chin keep their boats and bend their backs to the fishing nets. But when they come to your dock, three of every ten fish will belong to you.”

Jayan shook his head. “This dockmistress can keep her title, but the fish will be mine. I will take her as Jiwah Sen.”

“Sharum Ka, these are savages!” Khevat cried. “Surely you cannot truly mean to taint your divine blood with the camel’s piss that runs in the veins of chin.”

Jayan shrugged. “I have a Kaji son and Jiwah Ka to carry on my blood. My father knew how to tame the chin, as he did with the tribes of Krasia. Become one with them. His mistake was in letting Mistress Leesha keep her title before she accepted, giving her liberty to refuse. I will not be so foolish.”

Abban coughed nervously. “Sharum Ka, I must agree with the great Dama Khevat, whose wisdom is known throughout all Krasia. Your father acknowledged Mistress Leesha’s title and gave her liberty, for a child’s claim to her power depended upon that legitimacy. If she only has the title you give her, then she has no title for you to claim.”

Jayan rolled his eyes. “Talk and worry, worry and talk. It’s all you old men do. Sharak Ka will be won with action.”

Abban turned his own eye roll away as Khevat took a turn.

“She is too old, in any event.” Khevat spoke as if the very words were foul upon his tongue. “Twice your age, or I’m a Majah.”

Jayan shrugged. “I have seen women older than her with child.” His eyes flicked to Asavi. “It can be done. Yes, Dama’ting?”

Abban’s eyes flicked to Asavi, waiting for the dama’ting put an end to this foolishness.

Instead, Asavi nodded. “Of course. The Sharum Ka is wise. There is no greater power than the blood. A child of your blood put upon the dockmistress will make the town yours.”

Abban hid his gape. It was terrible advice, and would add months at least to their siege of Lakton. What was the dama’ting playing at? Was she purposely undermining Jayan? Abban would not fault her for it. Everam, he would willingly help, but not without knowing the plan. He was used to being a player and not a pawn.

“At least let me negotiate the terms,” Abban said. “A short delay, for appearances’ sake. A month at most, and I can deliver …”

“There is nothing to negotiate and no need for delay,” Jayan said. “She and all her holdings will be my property. The contract will be signed tonight, or neither she nor her court will see the dawn.”

“This will inflame the chin,” Abban said.

Jayan laughed aloud. “What of it? These are chin, Abban. They do not fight.”

“I do.” Dockmaster Isadore wept as she said the words.

Abban’s spies had worked frantically, learning everything he could about the woman before the ceremony. Her husband had been among the men who fell protecting her. Abban had told this to Jayan in hope the fool boy would at least leave give her the seven days to grieve as prescribed in the Evejah.

But the Sharum Ka would hear no reason. He eyed the woman like a nightwolf eyeing the oldest sheep in the herd. He had warmed to the idea of taking her this very night, and would not be swayed. When he thought no one was watching him, he squeezed himself through his robes.

Ah, to be nineteen and stiff at the very idea of a woman, Abban lamented. I don’t even remember the feeling.

Isadore had children, as well. Two sons, both ship captains already bound for Lakton when Jayan’s forces struck. They would keep the line hard against the Krasians, knowing Jayan must kill them to assure title for his son—should he manage to get one on the aging woman with the aid of Asavi’s spells.

The two moved to the pitiful excuse for a contract. Krasian marriage contracts typically filled a long scroll. Those signed by Abban’s daughters were often several scrolls long, each page signed and witnessed.

Jayan and Isadore’s contract was barely a paragraph. As he promised, Jayan had negotiated nothing, taking all and offering Isadore only her title—and the lives of her people.

Isadore bent to dip the quill, and Jayan tilted his head to admire the curve of her back. He squeezed his robes again, and everyone, including Khevat himself, dropped their eyes, pretending to ignore it.

And in that moment, Isadore struck. Ink splashed across the parchment like alagai ichor as she spun and leapt at Jayan, burying the sharp quill in his eye.

“Stop moving, if you ever hope to see again,” Asavi snapped. It was a tone few would ever dare take with the young Sharum Ka, but his mother had instilled a deep fear of the dama’ting in Jayan, and Asavi was his aunt in all but blood.

Jayan nodded, gritting his teeth as Asavi used a delicate pair of silver tweezers to pull the last slivers of feather from his eye.

The Sharum Ka was soaked in blood, little of it his own. When Jayan at last turned from the altar, panting and growling like an animal, the feather that jutted from his eye bled remarkably little.

The same could not be said for Dockmaster Isadore. Abban never ceased to marvel at how much blood a human body could contain. It would be days before Khevat’s nie’dama servants could clean it sufficiently for Khevat to formally reconsecrate the temple as Everam’s and begin indoctrination of the chin.

“I will take a thousand chin eyes, if I lose this one,” Jayan swore. He hissed as Asavi dug deep. “Even if not. There will not be a two-eyed fish man left before I am through.”

He glared at Abban, Qeran, and Khevat with his one good eye, daring them to argue. Daring them to even hint that this might be his own fault for not listening to their advice. He was like a dog looking for someone to bite, and everyone in the room knew it. They all kept their eyes down and mouths shut as Asavi worked.

This test is for you alone, Sharum Ka, Abban thought. It will temper you, or it will unleash you.

It was not difficult to lay odds on which it would be. If any were fool enough to take the bet, Abban would stake his fortune on the lake turning red in the spring.

“This would be easier if you would let me give you a sleeping potion,” Asavi said.

“NO!” Jayan shouted, but he shrank back from the glare Asavi gave in return. “No,” he said more calmly, regaining control. “I will embrace the pain, that I may remember it always.”

Asavi looked at him skeptically. Most dama’ting patients were not given a choice when hora magic was to be used, sedated heavily so they would remember nothing and not interfere with the delicate work.

But Jayan grew up in a palace where hora magic was used constantly, his father famous for his refusal of sedation while his injuries were tended.

“As you wish,” Asavi said, “but the sun is approaching. If we do not power the spell before then, you will lose the eye.”

The slivers removed, Asavi carefully cleansed the wound. Jayan’s hands and feet clenched, but his breathing was steady and he did not move. Asavi took a razor to his eyebrow, clearing a path for her wardings.

“Hang what remains of the chin whore’s body beneath the new flag at dawn,” Jayan said when the dama’ting turned to ready her brush and paint.

Qeran bowed. Jayan had made his father’s teacher one of his advisors, knowing it gave him further legitimacy in the eyes of the warriors. “It will be done, Sharum Ka.” He hesitated a moment as Asavi began her work. “I will prepare the men in case the chin find their spines and attack.” It was an old drillmaster’s trick, giving instructions to an inexperienced kai in the form of following assumed commands.

“What is to prepare?” Jayan snapped. “We will see their sails long before they get close enough to threaten us. The docks and shallows will run red.”

Asavi pinched Jayan’s face. “Every time you speak, you weaken a ward, and I do not have time to draw them again.”

Qeran remained in his bow. “It will be as the Sharum Ka says. I will send messengers to your brothers on the road, asking them to send reinforcements.”

“My brothers will be here in less than a month,” Jayan said. “I have taken the chin’s measure. I will go to the abyss if we cannot hold this tiny village that long against them.”

“May I at least install scorpions on the docks?” Qeran asked.

“Have them ready to poke those ships full of holes.” Jayan nodded.

“Nie’s black heart!” Asavi shouted, as his nod smeared her warding. “Everyone not missing an eye get out!”

Qeran dipped lower in his bow, using the steel of his leg to spring upright. Abban and Khevat were already moving for the door, but Qeran reached it in time to hold it for them.

Jayan refused sleep, pacing out the sunrise in front of the great window as his advisors watched nervously. Even Jurim and Hasik kept their distance.

The Sharum Ka’s eye was clouded white. He could see blurred shapes, as through a filthy window, but little more.

Twenty great Laktonian ships stood at anchor on the horizon, watching the town as the sun’s bright fingers reached for it.

No doubt their captains were looking through their distance lenses even now, seeing the dockmaster’s remains, wrapped in her merchant house colors, hanging beneath the crossed spears of Krasia’s flag. Horns were blown, and they set sail for the town. Out on the docks, the Mehnding Qeran had sent worked frantically to get scorpions in place.

“At last!” Jayan clenched a fist and ran for his spear.

“You should not be fighting,” Asavi said. “Your sight will try to trick you with only one eye. You will need to grow accustomed to it.”

“I would not have to, if you had healed it properly,” Jayan said acidly.

Asavi’s veil sucked in as she drew a sharp breath, but she accepted the rebuke serenely. “You would be seeing from two perfect eyes had you allowed me to sedate you. As it is, I have saved the eye. Perhaps the Damajah can heal it further.”

Again, Abban wondered at her motives. Had he truly been beyond her skills, or was this one more bit of leverage for Inevera to rein in her passionate son?

Jayan waved a disgusted hand her way and headed out the door, spear in hand. His bodyguard, the Spears of the Deliverer, appeared in growing numbers at his back as he marched through the rooms.

As the Sharum Ka predicted, there was plenty of time to assemble the disciplined Sharum on the docks and beach around the city before the boats could attempt to make landing. They gathered in tight formations on the docks and beach, ready to lock shields and protect the scorpions against the inevitable waves of arrow fire before the larger ships drew close enough to unload men on the docks. Smaller boats would make right for the shore.

Abban ran his distance lens across the water, counting boats and calculating their relative sizes against the cargo holds he had seen in the captured vessels. The math did not reassure him.

“If those ships are fully loaded,” he said, “the Laktonians can field as many as ten thousand men. Five times the number of Sharum we have.”

Qeran spat. “Chin men, khaffit. Not Sharum. Not warriors. Ten thousand soft men funneled down narrow docks, or slogging through shallow water. We will crush them. A dozen will fall for every board of dock they take.”

“Then let us hope their will breaks before they push through,” Abban said. “Perhaps it is time to send for reinforcements.”

“The Sharum Ka has forbidden it,” Qeran said. “You worry too much, master. These are Krasia’s finest warriors. I would count on dal’Sharum to cut down ten fish men apiece even on an open field.”

“Of course you would,” Abban said. “Sharum are only taught to count by adding zeros to fingers and toes.”

Qeran glared at him, and Abban glared right back. “Do not forget who is master here simply because the Sharum Ka favors you, Qeran. I found you in a puddle of couzi piss, and you’d still be there if I hadn’t spent precious water cleaning you off.”

Qeran drew a deep breath, and bowed. “I have not forgotten my oath to you, khaffit.”

“We attacked Docktown for the tithe,” Abban said, as if speaking to an infant. “Everything else is secondary. Without it our people starve this winter. We have barely begun tallying it, much less shipped it to our own protected silos. That idiot boy is jeopardizing our investment, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood to listen to Sharum boasting. Jayan has needlessly provoked an attack against a foe with superior numbers, even with time on our side to wait the fish men out all winter.”

Qeran sighed. “He wishes a great victory, to give credence to his claim on his father’s throne.”

“All of Krasia wishes that as well,” Abban said. “Jayan has never impressed anyone in his life, or he would already be on the Skull Throne.”

“It does not excuse his reckless leadership.” Qeran winked. “I did not send for reinforcements, but I did send messages to Jayan’s half brothers that we were about to engage the enemy. The sons of the Deliverer crave glory above all. They will come, even without orders.”

Abban remembered the way Qeran used to casually beat him as a child, trying to force him into a Sharum mold. Abban had hated Qeran then, and been terrified of him. He had never dreamed that one day he might command the man, much less actually like him.

He turned back to the window as the boats drew close enough for scorpion fire. Jayan gave the signal, and the Mehnding teams manning the weapons called numbers and adjusted tensions, aiming at the sky as twenty bolts, bigger and heavier than Sharum spears, were thrown like arrows. They climbed into the sky, dark and ominous as they reached the apex and arced down. Abban adjusted his distance lens to observe the results.

They were less than inspiring.

Mehnding scorpions could turn a charging sand demon into a pincushion at four hundred yards, more than twice the distance a bowman could manage. The teams were so fast, fresh bolts were loaded before the first struck their targets.

Or missed them.

Six bolts fell harmlessly into the water. One glanced off a ship’s railing. One passed through an enemy sail, causing a small tear that did not seem to impede the vessel. Two stuck harmlessly from thick enemy hulls.

The teams adjusted and fired again, with similar results.

“What in the abyss is the matter with those fools?” Abban demanded. “Their entire tribe only has one skill! A Mehnding who can’t aim is worth less than the shit on my sandal.”

Qeran squinted, reading the hand signals of the men on the docks. “It’s this cursed weather. It was never a problem in the Desert Spear, but since coming to the green lands we learned the scorpion tension springs don’t like the damp and cold.”

Abban looked at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.” Qeran shook his head grimly.

While the Mehnding fell into disarray, the Laktonian ships grew ever closer. Watchers blew horns when they came in bow range, and the Sharum returned instantly to their formations, shields raised, locked together like the scales of a snake.

Arrows fell like rain upon the shields, most splintering or skittering away, but some stuck quivering. Here and there were cries of pain from men with arrowheads in their forearms.

In their other hands they readied spears. The boats would be drawing in to the docks in just a few moments. They would wait out the bowfire, then come out of the shield formation and crush the invaders as they disembarked.

But volley after volley came down on the warriors, with more and more penetrating shields or slipping through cracks that formed in the scales as men were hit.

Abban looked up to see that the ships had pulled up, staying just in range to strike at the docks.

“Cowards!” Qeran spat. “They are afraid to fight us as men.”

“That just shows they’re smarter than we are,” Abban said. “We will need to adapt, if we’re to survive till the Sharum Ka’s brothers arrive with reinforcements.”

Long-armed rock slingers were loaded on the Laktonian decks. There was a horn and all loosed at once, arching small casks at the Sharum, blind in their formation.

The projectiles shattered, spattering a viscous fluid across the shield scales. Abban’s stomach clenched in dread as another enemy slinger fired, launching a ball of burning pitch.

The ball hit only one group of Sharum, but as the liquid demonfire—another secret of the greenland Herb Gatherers—flared white hot, it seemed to leap along the dock, the slightest ember or spark lighting shields soaked in the infernal brew. Men screamed as the fire slid through the cracks and rained on them like acid. They broke formation, those on fire shoving—and igniting—their fellows as they raced for the water.

Just in time for another withering volley of arrows from the enemy ships. Without their formations, hundreds were struck.

“This is fast becoming an embarrassment for Jayan, rather than a victory,” Abban said. Qeran nodded, even as Abban began calculating how much of the tithe they could get away with if the town was overrun.

Many fell to the planking as more casks of demonfire were hurled in, spreading the fire so fast it seemed the entire boardwalk was ablaze, with the fire running fast toward their vantage.

An arrow pierced the glass, missing Abban by inches. He collapsed his distance lens with a snap. “Time to go. Signal the Hundred to gather as many grain carts as possible. We will head down the Messenger road and rendezvous with the reinforcements.”

Qeran had his shield up to protect Abban. “The Sharum Ka will not be pleased.”

“The Sharum Ka already thinks khaffit cowards,” Abban said as he moved for the door as quickly as his crutch would allow. “This will do nothing to change his opinion.”

There was a pained look on Qeran’s face. The drillmaster had worked hard to make the Hundred into warriors that would be a match for any Sharum, and indeed they were well on their way. This would not bode well for their reputation, but it was more important they escape alive. Abban would happily watch a thousand Sharum fall before risking one of his Hundred in a pointless battle.

By the time they made the street, there was smoke and fire abounding, but Jayan was not defeated. Hundreds of Dockfolk had been rounded up at spearpoint and marched to the docks, clutching one another in fear.

“The boy isn’t a complete idiot, at least,” Abban said. “If the enemy can see …”

They could, it seemed, for the rain of arrows ceased, even as the Mehnding began to return fire. The scorpion teams still struggled, but they were improving. Rock slingers began hurling burning pitch at enemy sails as the Sharum archers took their toll.

“Already fleeing, khaffit?” Jayan said, coming up to them with his lieutenants and bodyguard.

“I am surprised to see you here, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “I expected you to be standing at the front of the docks, ready to repel the invaders.”

“I will kill a hundred of them when the cowards finally step off their ships,” Jayan said. “Until then, the Mehnding will do.”

Abban looked to the Laktonian vessels, but they seemed content to sit safely out on the water at the edge of bow range. Catapults continued to rain fire at any open areas of dock.

“The ships!” Abban cried, fumbling with his distance lens and turning toward the stretch of docks holding the captured vessels. It seemed there might still be time. The Laktonians had not yet attacked their precious ships, and there was movement on the decks.

“Quickly!” he told Qeran. “We must wet them, before …”

But then his lens focused, and he saw that the movement on the decks was not a bucket line, but Laktonian sailors, many of them shirtless and dripping, frantically working lines and unfurling sails.

There were bowmen as well, and the moment the Sharum noticed them, they began to fire, buying precious time as the moorings were cut.

The first ship away was the largest and finest of the lot. Its pennant showed a woman’s silhouette looking into the distance as a man holding a flower at her back hung his head.

A cheer came from the Dockfolk. “Cap’n Dehlia came back for the Gentleman’s Lament!” one man cried. “Knew she wouldn’t leave it in the hands of the desert rats!” He put fingers to his lips, letting out a shrill whistle. “Ay, Cap’n! Sail on!”

Jayan personally speared the man, his bodyguard beating down anyone who dared cheer with the butt of a spear, but the damage was done. Two more of the larger captured vessels sailed away, the sailors hooting and baring their buttocks to the Sharum as they went.

Warriors leapt onto the remaining vessels, ensuring that no more were lost. The sailors did not even bother to fight, shattering casks of oil and putting fire to them before leaping over the sides and swimming to small boats waiting nearby. The Sharum, none of whom could swim, threw spears at them, but it was an ineffectual gesture. In the distance, the other Laktonian vessels ceased fire, taking up the cheer as they turned away. Six stopped at the halfway point and dropped anchor as the rest sailed back to the city on the lake.

Jayan looked around, taking in the lost ships, wounded Sharum, and destruction of the docks. Abban did not wait to see who the Sharum Ka would vent his anger upon, quickly getting out of sight.

“This is a disaster,” Qeran said.

“We still have the tithe,” Abban said. “That will have to do, until we can beat some wisdom into the Sharum Ka.

“Have the men claim a warehouse we can fortify and use as a base,” he added. “We’re going to be here a long time.”